


Who's they?

by LipsOfFrost



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Humor, Identity Porn, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sexual Tension, no seriously even I'm getting lost, using about every superbat trope I can in one fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:57:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22996531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LipsOfFrost/pseuds/LipsOfFrost
Summary: Clark was staying at the farm for a few days to take a break from the cape and spend time with Ma. And people generally don't trust strangers knocking on their doors, but the Kents could never refuse someone in need of help.or:Bruce's truck breaks down in the middle of nowhere, and he's desperate. Also... there's something fishy about the Kent family.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 27
Kudos: 246





	1. Anomaly

**Author's Note:**

> These two lovebirds saved me during tough times back in '13, and here they go, doing it again seven years later. Inspired by Interstellar dir. Christopher Nolan, in the sense that this has basically nothing to do with outer space (besides the obvious). I was just watching the movie for the millionth time, and this idea sprung up on me during the tractor scene. Que binge-writing. 
> 
> In this fic, both Batman and Superman are fairly new figures to the public and have only recently started their gig.
> 
> Fair warning: My writing style is a roller-coaster when it comes to tone. Expect tremendous variations as we proceed. Anyways, enjoy.

"You should be leaving this to me, Clark," Ma tutted, looming over his shoulder. 

Scrubbing the soapy sponge gently against the plate, he shook his head, "No can do, Ma. You know the rules – you made them."

Washing up every once in a while was the least he could do for her, after everything she's done for him. There weren't many people out there who could raise an alien like they were their own. Especially not someone who was as troublesome as Clark was when he was a kid. It didn't end at childhood either. He was _still_ causing her problems. 

Even right now, a salvaged Kryptonian component from the spacecraft was tucked away in the shed out back. He didn't want to destroy it without grasping the entirety of the risks, and he didn't know where he could safely store the contraption without having to monitor it every second of the day. He should probably return it to the Fortress of Solitude for inspection, but he didn't want to leave Ma so soon. Maybe it was selfish of him, but he missed her.

"Whoever cooks, the other cleans," she smiled crookedly, "And I _do_ make a mean pie."

"I won't argue with that," Clark laughed, but it died off.

Something in his expression must have made her worry because she then asked, "Clark? Is something wrong?"

He listened to the thrum of a struggling motor, thick tires pressing against dirt, and the tell-tale heartbeat of someone driving. Distractedly, he asked her, "Are you expecting anyone?"

"No," she looked out the window, pulling aside the lace curtains, "Do you hear someone coming?"

Clark glanced out the window and saw a dingy, red truck making its way straight towards them. It was moving too slowly to be threatening, but that could be blamed on the sputtering engine. At that speed – or lack thereof – they'd reach the farm in six or seven minutes.

"Suppose so," he answered her.

When the truck came to a stop in front of the house and the doorbell rang, he let Ma answer the door. She was safe. Besides, he was her son, not her overbearing bodyguard. 

He was just setting aside the last plate when she opened the door. 

_ "Sorry to be a bother, ma'am." _

_ "It's not a problem. What can I do for you?" _

The visitor's voice was a deep baritone, rich in a way that had Clark pause. He had an accent he couldn't place – a little too posh to be from anywhere around here.

Clark tuned into their conversation while he dried his hands with his favourite floral towel. Ma embroidered it herself. After a quick inner debate, he put on his glasses, just in case he was spotted. It was better to be safe than sorry. 

_ "My truck – it's..." a sigh, "I've tried calling for help, but my phone's malfunctioning." _

_ "Oh dear. Is there anything I can do?" _

_ "I was hoping you had a working phone." _

Clark heard her pull out her mobile, feeling guilty for listening in, but he figured even a regular human could hear their conversation. The Kent walls were thin. And he knew Ma knew he was eavesdropping. Getting the scoop was in his blood.

_ "Mine isn't working either. Our internet's down too... Well, service is on or off around here. Would you like to come in for a glass of water? It's hot out,"  _ Ma offered, _"And my son's home. I'm sure he wouldn't mind taking a look at your truck. Maybe a second eye will do the trick."_

_ "I wouldn't want to intrude." _

_ "Nonsense! Come in, come in. Clark needs to make more friends, anyways." _

That was his que. Clark stepped out of the kitchen to greet their guest. He wanted to help out in any way he could. If Superman could be here, he'd simply grab the man and his truck and bring them wherever they needed to go. But unfortunately, here in Smallville, he was merely Clark Kent. And not having truly taken in the man's appearance yet, he was curious to meet him. 

He didn't know what or who he was expecting, but this wasn't it. Clark openly stared.

He was gorgeous. Rough around the edges, but in a striking kind of way. The man had a long beard, dark like his hair, of which was hidden by a faded baseball hat. His face wasn't easy to read; it was hard and unmoving. Not friendly, but not hostile either. He looked tired. 

There was a pocket-knife in his boot, a combat knife under his belt, and a switchblade in his jeans – it was excessive. Sometimes humans carried weapons to feel safe, and it broke his heart that it had to be that way. 

And he was _big_. Maybe as big as Clark, enough to rival him even when he wasn't hunching and making himself seem small. From what he could tell, the man worked out, and he worked hard. Dirt, scars, and old bruises littered his arms, travelling up and up, where they eventually slipped under his t-shirt sleeve. Though he was tempted, Clark wouldn't enhance his sight to check and see where they ended. That would be worse than a breach of privacy. But that didn't mean he couldn't wonder.

He eventually looked up only to find a pair of pale eyes already fixed on him. A brow raised knowingly. Knowingly, Clark guessed, because a man who looked like _that_ had to know when he was being admired. There were probably people throwing themselves at his feet left and right.

They hadn't even introduced themselves yet, and here he went, already thoroughly embarrassing himself. So much for a good first impression. 

Thankfully, Ma didn't notice the interaction, otherwise he'd never hear the end of it. She shut the door behind her, "I'll be right back with some water."

Out of the guest's sight, Ma made a face and tilted her chin, telling him without words to say something. Clark could only watch helplessly as she disappeared around the corner, cruelly leaving him to fend for himself.

He bit his lip. Might as well get this over with. He didn't want to be rude.

"Um, hi," he held out his hand – was he shaking? "I'm Clark."

The man took it, eyes never leaving his, "Ben."

His hand was rough with callous and his grip, firm. But it was warm, and it was steadying.

A little deafened by the rapid thumping of his own heartbeat, Clark cleared his throat, "Sorry, I heard your conversation with Ma. Did you want me to take a look at your truck?"

Ben let go first, hand falling to his side. He grimaced – and damn it if he still didn't look attractive, "If it's no trouble."

"I'd be happy to help," Clark said weakly.

Ma returned with two bottles of cold water, "Ben, was it? My name is Martha. Here."

"Thank you," Ben nodded.

Clark drank his water greedily. Ma had not been exaggerating – it _was_ hot. Weather didn't affect him, but apparently, unfairly attractive men standing in his doorway were an exception.

And of course, _of course_ , both Martha and Ben had witnessed him chug his water like he'd been stranded in the Sahara Desert. 

Remembering where he was, Clark choked on the last few drops of his drink and like a fool, spilled it on himself. He might have crushed the bottle a little too tightly in his panic, but thankfully, Ben's attention was on something... on something else.

His neck. Ben was intently studying his neck. The beads of spilled water rolling down his skin cooled under the attention – or maybe it was only Clark getting warmer. While he often needed a pointer or two – especially when it came to these kinds of things – he wasn't entirely oblivious. 

He tried to calm the heat in his cheeks, but it was too late. Ben's eyes found his again, the lost look gone and replaced with a razor sharpness that had Clark's mouth drying instantly. 

_ Jesus. _

If Ma wasn't suspicious before, she definitely was now. She looked between them for a moment. 

Lo and behold, a perfectly innocent smile crept up her face, "Clark, darling, why don't y'all go take a look at the truck? It'll be dark soon."

Trying not to feel too nervous, he pushed his glasses up his nose. He cleared his throat, "Right."

"Sorry about this," Ben said.

"It's okay, really," Clark smiled suddenly, following him out, "So, what do you think is wrong with your truck?"

They stepped outside. The sun was at that point in the sky where it was at eye-level, not quite setting nor high enough in the sky to go unnoticed, blinding him when he turned his head the wrong way. Clark could safely – beyond safely – stare at the sun head-on, of course, but that didn't mean the sudden onslaught of energy wasn't startling. 

Clark took one glance at the truck and knew right off the bat what was wrong with it. 

"It's the battery. And the spark plugs," Ben took the words right of out of Clark's mouth as the man lifted the hood, arms stretching, "Nothing looks damaged, but something _is_."

Nothing would look wrong to the human eye. But Clark could see a lot of things humans couldn't, including the traces of the current running through the truck. Small deposits of char and melted rubber lined the interior of the wires. The copper was still ringing with energy.

"Would you start your car, please?" he asked politely.

Ben nodded. He hopped into the truck, and Clark heard the jingle of keys right before the engine roared to life. 

Clark peaked inside. Deep within the battery, there were higher than normal levels of electric charge. It moved strangely, pulsing. The current seemed to slow down and speed up and intensify and relax at random intervals. It was purely chaotic.

He stepped out of the truck, "I think something's interfering with the electric field in the battery. It would explain the spark plugs."

Good guess. 

Very good guess, especially for someone who had a fraction of the visual information as Clark did to go on. 

Maybe he wasn't a farmer, but a mechanic? That would explain the scars and his lack of tanned or burned skin. Clark should just ask – the reporter in him was desperate to – but he didn't want to say the wrong thing. Ben had an air of privacy about him. And he made Clark nervous for reasons he couldn't explain. Well, yes, he could. Ben was intense. Self-assured, but not in an arrogant way. The man was still polite and respectful. But his demeanour demanded for respect, and he didn't need a cape or superpowers to get it. 

The battery hymned, and the spark plugs wailed, breaking him from his thoughts. It was like the car was crying.

"Yeah, you're right!" Clark announced – ...a tad too confidently.

Ben scrutinized him, an edge lacing his tone when he repeated, "I am?"

Ah. Whoops. He might have sounded a bit too sure for someone who'd only snuck a peak at the truck.

"The wires are burning up here. If you look closely. Along the edges. I mean, see here – it's starting to melt off. Overheating. The engine's essentially shutting off and reigniting, I think, well, by the looks of it," Clark stuttered his way through some improv explanation, but Ben didn't look too impressed, so he did his best to change the subject, "What would interfere with the field? The only thing I can think of is a magnet, but it'd have to be one heck of a strong one to do this kind of damage."

"I'm not carrying anything like that," Ben shook his head, but then he paused, "Ever seen Interstellar?"

"No?"

Ben smiled, "Was that an answer or a question?"

"An answer," Clark held his breath.

If Clark wasn't smitten before, he sure was now. To his dismay, Ben turned around to shut off the engine.

When he stepped back out of the truck, Clark managed to put himself back together, kind of, "What's it – what's the movie about?"

"It's a bit complicated. You like outer space?"

"...It's grown on me."

"Then I don't want to spoil it for you, in case you do ever see it," Ben then gestured to the battery, "At one point in the film, there's an anomaly in the gravitational pull on – coincidentally – the protagonist's farm."

"Space events do tend to happen on farms – in fiction! Not in real life, obviously," Clark bit his tongue. He wasn't usually so bad at this, "But what do you mean by an anomaly? Something that can be explained by physics, or something that can't be?"

Ben side-eyed him, "Both."

"Could be aliens," Clark joked. 

"I _did_ drive by a few crop circles on the way here," Ben smirked, but it quickly disappeared, "The anomaly caused a lot of electronics to run sporadically. I'm thinking it's something similar."

"Huh," Clark's brows furrowed together. He thought of the on-and-off phone service. And the power in their house had been wonky, going out whenever it pleased. It would explain all of it.

What could possibly cause an anomaly like that?

It hit him so suddenly, he broke character. His eyes widened.

The spacecraft component.

Ben noticed, "What's wrong?"

Clark couldn't exactly explain to Ben that there was a Kryptonian engine hidden in his backyard, now could he? He thought of a better excuse, "I... I have a spare battery. While it doesn't explain what's going on, I can replace this one since it's no good."

"No," Ben refused, "But thank you. That might not be a good idea. If I'm right, the same thing will happen to the replacement."

Clark wanted to open his mouth to argue, or at least offer him a ride to wherever he needed to go – Ma's truck worked fine; for whatever reason, it never failed the test of time – but then something caught his eye. 

He hesitated, "Um. Ben?"

"Yes?"

"You're bleeding."

There was a red patch at his rib, wet and fresh, steadily spreading by the second. 

Ben cursed.

Clark didn't hesitate, gently grabbing the man by the shoulders and guiding him back to the house. He instructed, "Put pressure on it."

The man did, gripping under his chest tightly. He apologized, "Sorry. Something must have reopened."

Clark wanted to ask, but it wasn't really his business, and now wasn't the time. However, he _did_ cheat, briefly enhancing his sight to inspect the injury. 

There was a deep cut above his rib with three sutures. It looked suspiciously like a stab wound. 

Unfortunately, Ben was right; the cut had reopened. There was a slight rip in the granulation tissue holding it together, right above the first stitch. At least the sutures were intacts. It didn't look too bad right then, but it would quickly become a problem if they didn't stop the bleeding soon. Hemorrhagic shock wasn't likely, but it also wasn't very friendly, and Clark would do everything he could to prevent it from happening.

As they stepped inside, Ma poked her head out of the kitchen, "You boys finished up?"

"Ma, Ben's hurt," he said a little desperately.

Her sight fell on the stained shirt, and with a gasp, she hurried to go grab their first-aid supplies. 

Clark helped Ben sit on the couch – Ben, who flinched and shook, but then whose vitals suggested a different story. Ben didn't seem to be perturbed at all. He might have even been more calm about this than Clark. 

"It's a shallow cut," Ben said, as if that made a difference.

Clark angrily muttered under his breath, "A shallow cut."

He hated seeing people get hurt. He hated it even more when they didn't care if they were, as if it didn't matter. As if Ben's life didn't matter. 

And someone help him, he was _not_ prepared for Ben to pull off his shirt without warning. 

The man was in shape, and not just for looks. He looked strong. The scars though... There were more on his torso than on his arms. You didn't get scars looking like that doing labour. 

His jaw clenched. As ill as the thought made him, Clark managed to politely avert his eyes and keep his mouth shut. Kneeling down next to Ben, he instead focused on the dressing covering the wound. How hadn't Ben noticed it reopening earlier? It seemed painful. The gauze had soaked fully through. Blood coated his torso, dripping between crevices of muscle. Some had even begun to cake. 

Ma stepped in carrying tape, saline, and fresh bandages. She looked worried, "Do we need a visit to the hospital?"

"Not at all. It's already doing better," Ben reassured her. He bundled up his shirt and wiped away at the leakage. Clark was still hovering, so Ben told him firmly, "I can take care of this."

He saw that same certainty in his eyes that he exuded everywhere else, and it was contagious. Clark nodded but didn't step away.

Ma looked like she wanted to fuss, her desire to help only rivaling Clark's own. She grabbed Ben's spoiled shirt once he put it down, "Ben, sweetie? I'm going to go wash this. Clark has a few spare shirts that'll fit you until it dries, if that's okay."

Ben then smiled – barely, but it was enough, "Thank you, Martha."

"Of course," Ma blushed and hurried away. Clark didn't blame her. Being on the receiving end of Ben's attention would do that. 

Ben began to peel off the dressing, fingers moving like water, meticulous and fluid. He'd done this before. He irrigated the wound with ease, probably textbook perfectly, if Clark were to check. 

Clark took in the dozens of other scars scattered over his chest, contemplating. He asked, "Does this happen often?"

Ben's gaze rose up again to meet his, clear but impossible to see through. And though the glance was brief, Clark felt like Ben had just stripped his mind and read what was there and in between. He did say, "I get into fights. Frequently."

"Oh," he played dumb. As if he already didn't know.

There was a heavy moment of silence as Ben cleaned the cut. 

Once the silence became unbearable, Clark started, "I... Well, I – I won't ask. But... are you okay?" 

"I am. Don't worry about it."

The tension in his shoulders ebbed away with the relief that washed over him. Clark's imagination was still running wild – abusive family, gang debts, nasty neighbours, fight clubs, military work – but at least Ben was comfortable with the way things were. Ben didn't deserve to get hurt, and Clark wanted him to be safe, but if Ben didn't want his help, it wasn't his right to interfere. Clark had learned the hard way that you couldn't just tell someone with a _potentially_ modifiable situation to change it. Things took time. Other factors were involved. And really, Clark had no idea what was going on in Ben's life.

"Okay, good. That's good."

Ben's harsh features softened somewhat, "Thank you."

Clark smiled, "You're welcome."


	2. Son

The screen on the sleek, metal device remained black. Still useless.

Impassively, Bruce tucked away his phone.

It would be a few more hours before Alfred found him. Bruce's piece of their tracking device had burnt out, rendering the whole system obsolete. He suspected it failed thirty miles from here. And as that had been his last marked position, it was the one which Alfred was likely pursuing.

He pulled off his hat, setting it aside. His hair was a sweaty, tussled mess. Very un-Wayne-like. He wouldn't be recognized. Also, his damned beard itched. He couldn't scratch it either without bringing attention to it, or worse, loosening the adhesive.

It had taken him a half-hour too long to detect the malfunction in his GPS. By the time he'd clued in, he'd been racing by the big sign that said, "Welcome to Smallville". Wondering why Alfred had failed to mention his sudden desire to go corn-picking in Kansas, Bruce had tried his comms. Those had burnt out as well. And then his engine died. The truck, he understood. It was your standard four-wheeler. But his phone? That was unlikely. He and Alfred had the securest line on the planet. If something had managed to knock out _his_ tech, then Bruce had the grounds to be concerned.

He'd been too focused on the previous events of his reconnaissance operation that night. Ben, his go-to non-Bruce Wayne, civilian alter-ego, had hit the pubs in several cities, trying to tail down on who was shipping illegal merch. Gotham was receiving, but from who? What he'd managed to dig up was something that should have stayed dead. To his utter disgust, there was something darker at play. Much darker. Narcotics and weapons were skimming the surface. This was another case of human trafficking – in _his_ city – and it left his blood boiling.

Clark stepped into the living room before Bruce's thoughts could spiral down into the abyss. Clark Kent. Bruce couldn't help but take in the man's beauty. It was difficult not to notice. There were few people in the world who looked like _that,_ and fewer still who didn't let it get to their heads.

"How's the wound?"

Bruce didn't like the way his brows scrunched together in concern. Clark was too indulgent for someone he'd met only an hour ago.

The man was a ray of sunshine, dragging Bruce from the shadows with all of his good-intent and genuine kindness. Bruce, who only Alfred ever got to see. This was disarming in every meaning of the word. And it was frustrating. He was inadvertently letting his guard down. All of this chaos in his head made him want to lash out at Clark, but that would be like kicking a puppy; you just couldn't do it.

Yet, Bruce was tempted to indulge. Once he left, Clark would never find him again. Why? Because Ben didn't exist. What was an issue? Bruce Wayne. His face was notorious enough for even the people of Smallville to recognize. However, if Clark hadn't identified him by now, it was unlikely he would later. To him, it would be a coincidence that Ben looked similar to Bruce Wayne.

"The bleeding stopped," Bruce eventually said. At the very least, he was careful to keep his tone gentle.

It was challenging to separate himself from the Bat when Batman was technically still on duty. Speaking was far more of a struggle than it used to be. Bruce was steadily disappearing into his personas by the day. When he'd first donned the cowl, it was like filling in a role and reading his lines. But since then, he'd lost the point where one begun and the other ended; the lines had begun to blur.

Lucky for him, here, he didn't have to meet either Batman or Bruce Wayne. _They_ were _assholes_.

"Does it hurt still?"

There was pain, but it was nothing he wasn't used to, "No."

"Okay, that's good," Clark's eyes crinkled, "Oh, wow."

"What is it?"

"I haven't seen that shirt in years," he grinned.

Bruce peered down to where Clark was pointing. It was a black shirt with a faded portrait of a detective, a lit pipe between his lips, and above it written, _No sh*t_.

"Sherlock?" Bruce set his palm on the shirt. The irony of it wasn't lost on him. If only Clark knew...

"Yep," he chuckled, sitting down on a chair across from him, "I was obsessed with the books as a kid. Books in general."

"Why Sherlock?"

Clark shrugged, commenting nonchalantly, "I admired his intelligence."

Hm... Bruce eyed him, catching his too casual body-language. Ah, there it was, "You were attracted to him."

"W-what? No, I – ...," he flushed, right up to his ears, "Okay. Yes. Maybe a little."

Bruce had suspected Clark could be into men. All the signs had been there. He didn't see why his brain latched onto this information though, but he supposed it was better to be more informed than not. How enlightening. Bruce ran through Clark's now obvious reactions towards him, combing through each a bit more carefully. Clark was interested in Ben. Good. Bruce could use his little crush to manipulate him if he had to.

And Clark had a – a _thing_ for detectives, or at least, he had at one point. That, Bruce admitted, he couldn't justify as he inevitably stored the information in his head for later anyways.

"Intelligence _is_ something to be admired," Bruce shifted. He did his best to keep his inflection flat, ensuring he left himself out of his words, "But Dr. Watson's compassion is more valuable. Solving a case for personal pleasure isn't exemplary. We need more people who care."

When he looked up, Clark was staring at him with a sparkle in his eyes, and not even his hideous glasses could hide it.

"You're right. You're absolutely right."

Bruce was forced to look away, but he shouldn't have bothered; he could hear that damned smile in Clark's voice.

Somehow, _somehow_ , they were on the same wavelength. But that didn't mean Clark understood. He didn't _get it._

"I'm not a good person, Clark."

The man seemed to assess him, expression critical as he spoke, "Maybe. Maybe not. We do good, and we do bad. We make mistakes. But it's what we believe in that matters most, and something tells me _you_ care."

He touched his shoulder, squeezing lightly in what was meant to be a comforting gesture, but it felt heavy with his burden. Bruce wanted to argue. He wanted to tell him that it didn't matter what you believed in if there was nothing to show for it. Bruce wanted him to understand that there were people out there who made choices that went against their values because they had to. That there were some people who didn't believe in anything. That Bruce had seen it all and all of nothing. And that there had to be someone out there who could fight for the people who couldn't, in ways they couldn't. Instead, Bruce kept his mouth shut.

A flimsy look crossed Clark's face – one of nervousness.

God, it was like reading an open book. Bruce patiently asked, "Yes?"

"Yes?" Clark repeated, sounding confused.

"You want to say something," he offered, "Go on. I don't bite," then as an afterthought, "Hard."

Clark had paused, opened his mouth, closed it.

Then he pushed up his glasses – more of a habit than a need, Bruce noted – and it was like a dam had broken, "Not to put pressure on you or anything – seriously, feel free to say no, but if you want – I mean, you can stay the night? Only if you'd like to, of course! If you're uncomfortable with the idea, I won't be offended or anything. But I can't help but worry. It's not a good idea to try to drive at night, especially without a phone. And there's your cut too. What if your truck finally gives up on you? Or gosh, what if the battery overheats? I'm sure Ma would be okay with – "

"Clark," Bruce tried.

"– you here. I'm sure she'll demand you stay for supper. I can try to replace your battery tomorrow if you've changed your mind. Or I can go drive up to our neighbours and see if their tow is working at all –"

"Clark," he said again, more insistently.

Clark stopped, looking at Bruce curiously and, dare he think, hopefully. Bruce couldn't be sure. For all his transparency, there was an air of mystery about Clark that he couldn't put his finger on. A barricade in his eyes that didn't let you in. It really was like looking at the sun – you couldn't.

Bruce would prefer to leave right then and there, but unless Alfred showed up soon, he wouldn't have a choice. Where would he go? His truck had less than a kilometer left, and that was being generous. It'd raise more suspicion if he did try to leave. And he didn't really have any excuses. There was nothing urgent in Gotham waiting for him. He had already collected the information he needed from his targets, there were no board meetings or parties for Bruce Wayne to attend to that night, and even if he left right now, it would be morning by the time he arrived in Gotham. Batman did not operate in daylight.

Martha – _Martha_ – and Clark were kind and generous, the sort of neighbours everyone wished they had. And Clark's body language showed no deception, no trace of falsity. The man was genuinely concerned for Bruce's welfare. He held a great amount of trust for a stranger, yet he had every reason not to.

It hurt him. Clark had a heart of gold. If only he knew what sort of person he was tending to.

In Gotham, men like him didn't last. But this was Kansas; he wouldn't have grown up with the constant sound of gunshots and sirens in the distance. Day or night. He had no reason to suspect Bruce had any ill-intentions. Lucky for him, Bruce didn't. But what if he did?

Clark was an idiot, Bruce finally decided.

"I'll stay," he said. It wasn't a lie; he hadn't specified for how long he would. If – _when_ Alfred showed up, he'd sneak out. Then when all was said and done, he'd send an anonymous check to repay Clark and Martha for their time.

"That's... that's great!" the man grinned like the sun.

He should have brought his sunglasses, Bruce thought wryly.

Somehow already half-way into the kitchen, Clark asked, "Any preferences for food?"

"Anything's fine."

His host disappeared, but Bruce could hear him speaking enthusiastically with Martha. Bruce took the chance to take in his surroundings – to _really_ take in his surroundings. His initial inspection had been to scout for weapons, potential hiding spots for weapons, and exit routes. In hindsight, he was being ridiculous. This was a home to a warm-hearted pair who hadn't hesitated to help a stranger in need. And he came to them, not the other way around.

Even if Bruce tried, he didn't think he could feel unwelcome in their home. It was decorated with warm, earthy tones, mismatched furniture, and wood finishes. A candle was lit on a small dining table, the scent like cinnamon but not overbearingly so. Plants, paintings, and family photos brought the place to life. A vase of vibrant flowers was set near the window too, splashes of blues, yellows, and reds. Primary colours. The farm was cozy, so unlike Wayne Manor with its cold, wide, barren halls.

From the kitchen, he could hear the playful banter Clark had with his mother, their laughter faint in his head but loud in his heart.

Something in Bruce ached.

"Ben?" Clark called.

It may as well have been a slap to the face. Ben. A punishing reminder of where he was and why he was there.

Bruce had made his decision years ago; he had no right to yearn for a normal life.

Clark came into view when he didn't respond, "Ben? We were wondering if you had any allergies."

"None," Bruce replied evenly, rising to his feet.

Clark looked at him curiously as he followed him into the kitchen, but he didn't say anything.

Martha did. She looked him in the eye and spoke sternly, "I know that look! And I won't have it."

Bruce lived with Alfred, so this script wasn't new to him at all. He couldn't help but tease, acting clueless, "What look?"

"The same look Clark is always givin' me. I know you want to help, but you're our guest. I will not have you liftin' one finger," Martha pointed a spoon at him, "You and Clark both. Get out of my kitchen and let me pamper you boys."

"But Ma – " he protested, not unlike a child who was denied his cookies.

Martha threatened without words, her cooking utensil unwavering in the air.

"Alright, you win," Clark lifted his hands, laughing, "This time."

"Hm," she nodded and muttered, "Well, let's hope the power stays on until I'm finished. Been unlucky today."

So, their power lines weren't stable either. Bruce connected the dots swiftly. Something wasn't only interfering with his gear; it was affecting the farm's appliances too. And it was recent. This implied something _bigger_.

Clark chuckled nervously, "Let's – let's hope."

Through his peripherals, Bruce saw Clark glance at him quickly.

He frowned. Though there was nothing fishy about the gesture in itself, the motion had him on edge. Bruce's instincts were whispering hushed words, that something wasn't right, that Clark was hiding something. He recognized that he could be paranoid at times, but that was what kept him alive.

If Clark had somehow discovered that Ben was Bruce Wayne, his behaviour would have shifted at some point since their meeting. Even if it was a slight difference in their interactions, Bruce would have caught it. He'd seen it a thousand times. When people recognized who, exactly, was in their company, they'd either stiffen in shock, flavour their words like the naturals they were, or confront him directly. But there was none of that with Clark. The man was still as clueless to his identity as before.

Martha must have said something funny because Clark was laughing again. He laughed with his whole being.

Today, Bruce suddenly decided, he would try to let himself be. How often was he able to be himself outside of the privacy of the Manor? If he wasn't on patrol, he was Mr. Wayne. Out here in Smallville, Kansas, he didn't have to slap on either persona. It would probably be stranger if he did. What business did Bruce Wayne have here in Kansas? None. He wouldn't be caught dead frolicking around in some farm. And that pompous attitude didn't match up with Ben's character at all.

Neither Martha nor Clark would ever see him again once he left. Wayne Enterprises didn't have a strong influence out here, so the relevancy of Bruce Wayne would be insignificant. And if they ever did discover who the owner of his company was, it would be a coincidence that Ben looked so similar to him. There was nothing here to connect him to Gotham. He was safe.

If the worst-case scenario did happen – if they realized he was Bruce Wayne? Maybe Bruce Wayne wanted to "get away from the publicity" and "try living like the common folk". Someone discovered who he was and tried to stab him.

That would be a believable cover.

There. Simple. Good. Done.

" – hurricane warning in – " Martha accidentally elbowed a bowl sitting on the counter, and it knocked over. Bruce reflexively reached out to grab it, but Clark was impossibly faster. They made eye contact.

Unfortunately, Bruce thought as Clark suddenly lost his grip and dropped the bowl, faster didn't help if someone had slippery fingers. It shattered.

Neither of the Kents seemed perturbed by it, as though Clark broke things often.

Martha tutted, "Oh, Clark."

"Sorry, Ma," he mumbled sheepishly.

This was refreshing. These two were like a glass of cold water after a long night on patrol.

Bruce grabbed the dustpan he spotted near the garbage bin, ignoring Martha's protests. He crouched down and swept any shards he could spot. Clark's stare burned into him like heat vision, and getting annoyed by the goosebumps it caused, Bruce risked a glance. Their eyes met, and a shiver shot up his spine. The man's expression was indecipherable, made all the harder to read because of those bulky glasses, but that unflinching stare was cutting him open – dissecting him. Bruce's heart thundered.

Damn it, Kent.

Clark suddenly smiled breezily, and Bruce wanted to strangle him.

Before his thoughts could go down that path, Bruce followed Clark back into their living space, setting himself back down onto the couch. The moment he did, he groaned softly. This might have been the most comfortable seat he'd ever sat in. Clark made an odd noise, and Bruce threw him a glance. He'd been fiddling with a remote.

In disbelief, Bruce watched him dropped it. Jesus. Not even two minutes. Clark had to be the clumsiest person he'd ever met.

"Sorry, we don't have wifi right now," Clark abruptly stood up as if nothing happened, the remote miraculously secure in his hand, "But cable might be working?"

Clark had a way with his eyes. How Martha was able to say no to him, ever, remained a mystery.

Again: kicking a puppy.

He conceded, leaning back, "Alright."

It didn't matter to him either way. He wasn't big on television, but it'd be a waste to say no after all the trouble the man went through to turn it on.

"Any preference?" Clark flipped threw some channels. There weren't many.

Bruce muttered, "The news."

Clark grinned at that, eyes twinkling, "Sure."

He should have seen it coming.

The couch was spectacular. The shirt he was wearing – Clark's shirt, his mind unhelpfully supplied – smelled good. He felt safe. He was tired.

Not even five minutes after Clark had turned on the TV, Bruce fell asleep.

* * *

Clark shared an amused look with Ma before he saw her face melt into something tender. Ben looked older than Clark by a few years, but that didn't drive her instincts as a mother away. She grabbed their best throw and draped it over Ben, careful not to jostle him awake. Clark turned off a lamp.

In the kitchen, they smiled at each other.

"That explains the bags under his eyes," Martha said softly, "He must be so exhausted."

He agreed, "I don't blame him. He's had a long day."

They sat down on some wooden chairs. Martha rested her chin on her palm, "So."

Clark tensed.

"Ben's quite a handsome young man."

" _Ma!_ " he whispered, admonishing, blushing. Clark hid his face behind his hands, "Not _now_. Please."

Martha touched his hand, her fingertips light against his skin. It meant the world to Clark, especially when she then said, "I just want ya to know that if you fall in love with a man, I would be more than happy for you, Clark."

Clark lifted her hand and lightly kissed her knuckles, "I know. I never doubted it for a second."

Martha continued, quiet but shameless, "And I shouldn't have to remind y'all to use protection. There's more to worry about than an accidental pregnancy. Don't forget to prepare 'im well, too. Anal sex can be very dry and painful if you forget in the heat of things."

Horrified, Clark didn't think he could turn redder, " _Ma!_ "

"Love you too, sweetie," she pinched his cheek, standing up, "I think it's time I check on the food."

In a panic, Clark quickly listened to see if Ben was still asleep. If he'd woken and overheard, Clark would happily flee Earth and never return. To his utter relief, Ben's breathing was as steady as he'd left it. The man was knocked out cold.

You know, right then would be a splendid time to relocate the Kryptonian engine. The backyard wasn't a safe spot. He hadn't realized it would impact their surroundings this badly. If he knew, he'd have never brought it here. Clark should have sent it straight to the ship the moment he'd found it.

Standing up, he said quietly to Ma, "I'm going to go drop something off."

Ma saw him frown towards the lawn behind them, and after a moment, her eyes widened in realization.

Clark was already outside, but her heard her soft whisper, "Be safe."


	3. Unearth

When Clark returned, Ben was thankfully still asleep. He should probably change before Ben woke up. While he wasn't covered in dirt, there were still more specs of dried mud on him than there should have been. And unless he used farming as an excuse, there was no honest explanation to it, and Clark hated lying when he didn't have to. He'd already gotten the impression that man's noticing skills were impeccable too.

Clark showered and changed into an oversized hoodie and sweats, hoping it'd hide his body more than his shirt would.

He'd been keeping a close ear on Ben, so it was only a few minutes later that he heard the shift in Ben's breathing. He was awake!

Clark hunched even more, both excited and nervous to speak to him again. There weren't many people who found Clark Kent interesting, but Ben did, to some degree. Either the man liked normal, or Clark was slipping; he wasn't being _Kent_ enough. Kent was easy to step on and even easier to ignore. People didn't pay attention to the man, and they certainly didn't listen to him. It was lonely sometimes, but he wouldn't have it any other way. Clark preferred his privacy, and as much as he loved meeting new people, it was draining when he couldn't be himself around them.

Ben was just a good listener too. What was curious was that no matter how disinterested the man's expression or tone of voice was, when they conversed, he was fully engaged.

And the _thing_ that Ben did with his eyes. Rao.

Clark could keep being himself around Ben. It wouldn't hurt, right? As long as he made sure he didn't look too much like Superman – or accidentally use his powers – Clark figured he could relax a little.

The very thought lifted a heavy weight off his shoulders, both physically and figurately.

Ma was setting the table just as Ben stepped in. His expression was as severe as ever, but his voice betrayed him, gruff with sleep, "What time is it?"

The sound sent a thrill down Clark's spine. Something sweeter, warmer, and heck of a lot more confusing settled deep into him. Ben wearing his shirt, half-asleep, and stepping into their kitchen like it was his own home – it had Clark choking on his own breath. He wanted that – he wanted someone who he and Ma could call family. He hadn't realized that he wanted that this badly. Even more, he wanted someone who could be that and _know_. Someone who could bare the burden of knowing his identity. Someone who wouldn't have to face the risks that came with it. It was an impossible dream, but Clark could hope.

"Eight-o-five," Martha checked the time, "You slept a few hours."

"That was rude of me," he looked genuinely upset.

Martha shook her head, "Not at all. I'm glad you got to rest."

Ben was doing that horrible, awful thing with his eyes again, staring at and through Clark like there was no one and nothing else in the world.

But then his gaze dropped, dragging over Clark's frame just like Clark had done to him a million times since they'd met. The movement was quick and would have been unnoticeable to most, but that didn't mean a thing to Clark, especially not when he heard the soft, soft sound of Ben's breath when it hitched.

He trembled.

The plate in his hands whined, ready to shatter—Clark loosened his grip hastily. Two broken dishes in one night would be pushing it. He set the plate down, pretending all was well when in fact, nothing was fine. Clark moved to the stove, turning his back to their guest.

He tried to think logically. Just because Ben looked at him, it didn't mean he _wanted_ him. Yes, of course, Clark was just reading too much into it. He was projecting, and it wasn't fair to either of them. This was supposed to be a safe place for Ben to stay. Clark didn't want to make him uncomfortable just because he couldn't control his infatuation. But he also couldn't push Ben away either. That wouldn't be very nice of him.

Ben said his name, "Clark?"

"Yes?" he pretended to be focused on stirring the soup. Gosh, he was pathetic.

The man stepped behind him, and he tensed. If Ben noticed, he didn't show it. Instead, he got even closer, leaning to peer over his shoulder. No one but Clark could have felt the soft puff of air hitting his cheek, like a caress, nothing like the whipping air of flight – Ben exhaled, "What kind?"

"B-butternut squash."

"Smells great," Ben stepped away so Clark could breathe again, "Martha. Let me set the table. Please."

Ma smiled, "Well, alright."

Ben was so – so... kind, he realized, and immediately gushed.

Sitting down and eating together proved to be a million times worse. Ben fit into their home like a glove. Knowing that he'd be gone tomorrow was upsetting Clark more than it should. His imagination was running out of control. Maybe Ma had been right. Maybe he was lonely, if he was this clingy over someone he'd just met.

"Isn't that right, Clark?" Ma asked.

He stopped shovelling food into his mouth, looking up at her as he swallowed, "Mhhm?"

"Nevermind, dear," Ma laughed, seeing his stuffed face. She turned to their guest, "Are you from Kansas, Ben?"

Ben set down his drink, "No. I'm here to do a few errands."

She didn't pry, asking instead, "And how are you liking Smallville?"

"I... feel like I can breathe here," he said it like he meant it in more ways than one.

Clark helped himself to some vegetables so that Ma could keep speaking with Ben. It was unfair for him to want to keep the man to himself, when it was her who'd hardly had opportunities to socialize. The people of Smallville were nice folk, but the Kents had always been the weird family in town, thanks to him. And since Pa died, she hadn't been able to talk to anyone about Clark. He was a secret that couldn't be disclosed, and it put barriers between her and the rest of the world.

After they finished eating, Clark and Ben were put on dish-duty.

"Ma," it was Clark's turn to make threats. He waved the sponge at her, but of course when he spoke, there was nothing aggressive in his tone, "We've been through this."

Martha rolled her eyes and left, but not before he saw her smirk to herself. Clark frowned once he saw it. Ma was definitely scheming.

"Whoever cooks, the other cleans," he then explained to Ben, who had watched their interaction with a closed-off expression. Clark opened his mouth to ask if everything was okay but changed his mind.

"Let me help," Ben insisted, "I feel useless."

If it meant they got to spend more time together, Clark wouldn't object. He rolled up his sleeves, pouring a drop of soap onto the sponge, "I'll scrub! You can rinse and dry. The rack's right there."

When Clark looked over, Ben's eyes snapped up to his face, "I can do that."

He said it with maybe _too_ much conviction. Like he didn't think he could do it and needed some extra convincing. Maybe he used a dishwasher at home.

But strangely enough, Ben even struggled to set aside the dishes. He held onto the first wet plate for a few seconds longer than he needed to, staring at it like he had his own laser vision that would heat it dry. Before Clark could call him out on it, he delicately slid the plate into the rack.

"Do you live here with your mother?" Ben tried to make conversation.

He smiled, "No. I live in Metropolis, but I like to visit Ma when I can."

"You really care about her," an observation.

"I do," Clark scrubbed away at a pot, "It's – I was a difficult child to raise."

"She loves you all the same."

He hesitated, but let himself broach the subject, "Can I ask about your parents?"

Ben was quiet for a long while, and Clark began to regret he'd ever opened his mouth in the first place, but then he finally, simply said, "They're dead."

"I'm sorry," Clark said, "Really. I am."

Ben didn't say much else on that topic, and who could blame him, so Clark talked about Smallville. They finished up with the dishes and made their way back into the living room.

Ma had conveniently decided to go to bed early that night. Clark could hear her tucking herself in and giggling quietly under her blankets. He sighed. Definitely monkey-business. Her meddling was endearing if not mortifying, yet he couldn't exactly say he minded the time alone he got with Ben thanks to her.

Maybe they could at least be friends. Clark wouldn't mind that at all.

"So..." Clark began awkwardly.

"So."

"Um..." Clark fidgeted, "Want to step outside? I mean, with me of course. I'm not kicking you out – that wasn't what I meant to imply."

Ben's eyes danced with amusement, "Sure."

Clark wished he could say all of his stammering around Ben was pretend, but to his embarrassment, that wasn't the case. He swallowed, suddenly shy, and tried to shake his nerves away, "Great! The stars look amazing from here. You can even see the milky way without a telescope."

At least that's what Ma told him. Clark could see the stars even in the middle of the day.

"Want anything to drink?"

"I don't – ," Ben cut himself off, "Beer's fine."

Clark grinned, "Be back in a jiff."

He hurried into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Clark wasn't much of a drinker – it didn't work on him for obvious reasons – but Ma was. She liked the bitterness of beers and ales, which Clark never developed a taste for. He grabbed two bottles anyways, figuring he could enjoy the coolness of it if not the flavour. He twisted off the caps with his hands, and they opened with a satisfying _pop!_

He stepped outside to find Ben sitting on the tailgate of his truck, leaning back on his arms and staring up at the sky. It was dark out, and a few moths were fluttering around the lamp light on the porch. Clark couldn't imagine a better summer evening.

Ben didn't take his eyes away from space, saying a little breathlessly, "You were right."

Clark made his way to him, and suddenly he wished he didn't have superpowers. He wished that he could see the stars as if for the first time, to see them in all their wonder and magnificence. But, he supposed, no matter how many stars were out there, or how many planets, Earth was the greatest place in the universe. Humanity deserved to be called beautiful too.

He hopped onto the truck to sit next to who he hoped would be a new friend. They clicked, or at least, Clark thought so. He handed him the bottle, and they didn't say anything else for a while, sipping at their drinks in a comfortable silence.

"You don't get this view in Metropolis. Too many lights," Clark murmured.

He didn't expect Ben to hear him, but his ears were razor sharp, "You're from Metropolis?"

"No," Clark shook his head, "Born and raised here. But I work there now."

Ben's brows rose, "That's a big and busy place."

"You're from the city too, right?" Clark asked and wondered if he should have. Both of them seemed to be avoiding the topic of their jobs or their personal lives, which had its perks. But Clark wanted to get to know Ben.

Ben's lips quirked up against the rim of his bottle. His eyes glittered, "Yes."

Clark said distractedly, "You don't look it. Or act like it."

"What does a city boy act like, Clark?"

Clark shrugged, feeling like he messed up somewhere, "Couldn't say."

Ben abruptly leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, "You weren't what I was expecting either."

"What does that mean?"

"When I drove up here," he flicked his wrist.

Clark peered at him, "What were you expecting?"

"...I don't know."

"Well," Clark chuckled, "I hope I didn’t disappoint you, at least."

Ben murmured, "Not at all,"

Clark flushed and for a lack of words, took another swig of his drink, unconsciously trying to hide behind the bottle.

Thankfully, before Clark could do anything mortifying or, Rao help him, he tried to flirt, Ben changed the topic as if nothing happened, "Want to go look for aliens?"

"Pardon?" Clark blinked. He glanced at the bottle in Ben's hand.

Ben must have noticed the movement because he said firmly, "I'm not drunk."

He was serious? "Okay..."

Ben hopped off his truck, pointing to the fields of corn, "I haven't ruled out extraterrestrial influence on the electric field anomaly."

"You believe in aliens?"

Ben raised a brow, "We already have an alien on Earth."

"Oh. Right."

He deadpanned, "You work in Metropolis."

"Still getting used to it," he tried to explain feebly.

Ben frowned, but he thankfully seemed to accept the excuse as he continued, "If an alien as biologically advanced as Superman exists, then it's highly probable that more basic life forms are out there. I'd bet my money that it's guaranteed. It also grants the possibility that Superman's presence here on Earth caught the attention of other extraterrestrials."

Clark tensed. Too close. This was cutting it far, far too close. He tried, "Are you sure about searching? I mean, you're still hurt, and it's pretty dark out there... "

"I can see well in the dark," Ben was insistent.

He chuckled, "Me too."

"Please? You're good company, Clark," Ben said without a trace of subtlety.

"I – oh. Thanks," he stammered. Clark could control the blood flow to his cheeks if he wanted to, but he didn't want to. He wanted to feel human, "You too."

He realized that he was being emotionally manipulated, but again, what could go wrong? There was nothing out there that could hurt Ben as long as Clark was by his side. It'd be pretty funny, searching for aliens. If only Ben knew there was one right in front of his nose this whole time.

"Okay," he agreed reluctantly, "But I'm bringing a flashlight."

Ben's quick grin was worth it.

Their search was for naught. They'd walked a few miles out into the field but found nothing. Ben had pulled out his phone, which turned on but didn't do much else. It glitched out several times, but Ben seemed to find it useful, so Clark didn't bring it up.

He really hoped Ben didn't come to any not-so-outrageous conclusions, otherwise Clark would have serious damage-control to go through. If he found anything suspicious out here, he would probably clue in that the Kent family wasn't as innocent as they seemed. At least there was nothing here that could directly tie him to Superman.

Ben was in his zone, but Clark was actually having fun. He'd forgotten how nice the crunch of leaves and dirt under his boots felt. It was even better being able to spend some time out here with someone else. The corn plants were only beginning to silk, reaching just a few inches over their heads. Being surrounded and so close to nature was something Clark could appreciate.

The man did actually see pretty well in the dark. He even found the flashlight annoying at times, judging by the flinch and following scowl he made when Clark accidentally waved it around a little too wildly.

Ben suddenly stopped, his expression sober. Clark froze too, tensing on instinct.

He hissed, "Clark."

"Ben?"

Ben twitched at that, a movement only his eyes could see. He sounded annoyed, "The electric field is stable again."

"Oh? That's great! How can you tell?" he asked curiously.

"My phone."

That didn't make any sense though. Clark said this out loud, "But it's still not working..."

Ben looked like he wanted to roll his eyes, "Of course not. The battery's fried."

"So how do you know?" Clark wondered.

"It doesn't matter," Ben shook his head, "Let's head back."

Clark followed him a bit numbly. The trek back was silent. Ben seemed upset. It was no wonder; he had really wanted to know what was going on.

Hm...

Clark crept up closer to Ben, cheating by hovering slightly above the ground and holding his breath. He suddenly grabbed his shoulders, exclaiming loudly, "Boo!"

The man's heart jumped and spiked. _Gotchya!_ Clark thought. But Ben only turned his head, a cool façade over his features, "I'm terrified."

Having heard the leap of his heart rate, Clark smiled knowingly, "You better be."

Ben snagged the flashlight from him, clicking it off, and the vibrant LED light disappeared. Clark struggled to keep his eyes under control at the change. Ma had warned him about their inhuman glow when he enhanced his vision. No glasses would hide that sort of colour.

"Next time, use the darkness to your advantage," Ben was explaining, "Drag on the silence. Let your victim feel the unease."

"You sound experienced," Clark noted. Thinking about the scars littering his body, Clark once again found himself wondering what sorts of trouble Ben got into.

He didn't get a response.

He was about to use his sight to spot Ben, but figured the man was trying to make a point. He clamped onto his sensitive hearing too, doing his best to mute out what was right in front of him. Clark wanted to get jump-scared, if Ben could somehow do it.

He waited and waited.

Three minutes must have passed.

Four.

"...Ben?"

He looked around. Ben wasn't here.

His heart dropped. Clark called out again, "Ben?!"

He scanned his surroundings for any sign of the guest he just lost. His sight didn't pick up anything. And it only struck him to check behind him again just as Ben whispered into his ear.

" _Boo_."

Clark sucked in a breath and shivered right down to his toes. Goodness. He inclined his head, wanting so badly to press back against the man behind him, to take anything and everything Ben would give him.

He turned around to see the usual flat line of those lips curved up, a hint of a smirk edged into them. Under the starlight, he seemed to be a creature out of this world.

"Scared?" his voice was low.

"No," Clark replied breathlessly.

Ben leaned in closer, and the air shifted. Quietly, he repeated, "Scared?"

Clark swallowed, "...No."

There was electricity running through the air, like the anomaly had reached its climax, or maybe it was only Clark's wishful thinking.

Drawn to him with an insatiable need to touch, Clark's hands found a way to his shoulders. He was fighting a losing battle. He could sense the raw life in him, the strong thrum of blood, the beat of his heart shaking his organs with each pulse. Right under his fingers, through the fabric, Clark could palpate the powerful waves of synapses from his nerves – small in nature, enormous in purpose.

Clark clenched his fists, grabbing onto the fabric of the man's shirt without any semblance of control. He was gentle – Clark was always gentle. When one spent the most of his life mastering control, it was hard not to be. Control of his strength, his powers, his senses. But never his feelings; they always won.

Ben was so close that when he next spoke, Clark shared his breath, "You should be."

His eyes were stunning, diamonds in their own right. But under the night sky, it was like staring into a sheet of ice. There was nothing gentle in his gaze. The intensity could burn him. There was darkness swimming in those depths, and though it tempted to pull him in and drown him, there were a thousand walls of stone to get through first. Walls that not even Superman could break.

Clark started, "Ben –"

Ben blinked, and Clark heard him stop breathing. A funny look crossed Ben's face before he suddenly pushed away from him. Not forcefully, but firmly. The neutral expression was etched back into his features as though it never left, "We should return before Martha gets worried."

"But – " Clark sighed, "Okay."

If Ben wanted to pretend like that didn't just happen, Clark wouldn't stop him. Things wouldn't have worked out anyways. That didn't prevent his disappointment. Clark trailed behind the man lethargically, and if he touched his lips on the way back home, no one had to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is super late, but that's sorta my M.O.


End file.
